Monstrous
by Brames
Summary: "Somebody has to remind humanity of the monsters they can be." / The Ninety-Ninth Hunger Games.
1. MONSTROUS

**The Hunger Games** belongs to Suzanne Collins.

* * *

 **1**

* * *

i

* * *

Othello was five years old when he saw his father for the last time.

"Be good, son. Be strong." Father stood tall and broad, looking ever so imposing in that stark white uniform, but his voice remained as warm as ever. "Take care of your mother," he whispered to Othello as he swept him up into one last hug.

Othello frowned. His parents had done their best to hide the dire reality of the war from him. He knew nothing of the Capitol's crumbling war effort, nearing total collapse as their forces were decimated by defeat and desertion. Of the discontent and despair gripping its people while the front inched ever closer toward their city with each passing day. Of even the draft that was now threatening to tear his father from his very arms.

Yet none of that mattered in this moment. One look at Mother, hiding her face in her hands as she wept in the doorway, was more than enough for Othello to realize something was wrong.

"When will you come back?" Othello's voice wavered but he forced it to steady. Father had told him to be strong, and Othello would not let him down.

For the briefest moment Father's eyes clouded with an indescribable emotion. _Sorrow,_ Othello might have realized, had he been older and wiser. But it passed in an instant, and then he was smiling. "I'll be home in time for your birthday, Othello. I promise."

With those final words, Father departed. Othello watched mournfully as the man strode away without so much as a look back. Despite his father's promise, Othello couldn't shake the feeling that he wouldn't be coming back.

As it turned out, he shouldn't have doubted Father. Orion Cairns' ashes were returned two months later, just in time for Othello's sixth birthday.

* * *

ii

* * *

The Mockingjay Revolt was extinguished shortly after. No district was spared the Protector's justice. Thirteen was annihilated in a storm of nuclear hellfire; the remaining twelve, in varying states of destruction and disarray, fell in line beneath the Capitol yoke once more. _ABSOLUTE VICTORY,_ shouted the headlines. It didn't feel like one to Othello.

Nonetheless, the Capitol elite were beyond overjoyed. Drinks flowed freely as they toasted a victory they had taken no part in. Their lifestyles of luxury would continue.

As would the Hunger Games.

* * *

iii

* * *

Othello watched his first Games the next summer.

 _Amazing,_ he couldn't help but think to himself as he watched Aleph of Two cut down the sons and daughters of rebels with ruthless, practiced efficiency. But it wasn't the blood of the fallen or the screams of the dying that captivated Othello. It was the fire in the man's eyes as he struck down his enemies. They _burned,_ though whether with hunger for victory or hatred for rebels – or perhaps both – he couldn't rightly say.

Regardless, Othello was starstruck. Aleph Hale was ambitious, decisive, and above all else _strong_ – infinitely more admirable than the soft and pampered Capitol fools that surrounded Othello, never mind that he was one of them himself. He said as much to Mother, who answered with a slap hard enough to rattle his skull.

"That creature is _not_ to be admired, Othello," she snapped. "Take him out of the Games, and he's just another murderer! A _monster,_ like the rebels that killed your father!"

But when Aleph cleaved a twelve-year-old nearly in half to secure his victory, Othello learned a valuable lesson: _the monster always wins in the end._

* * *

iv

* * *

"How do you do it?"

The voice jolted Othello from his reminiscences, causing him to look up from the whiskey he'd been nursing for the better part of an hour. A girl had taken the seat next to him at the bar. Twenty at the oldest; dark in hair and skin like him. Relatively unadorned of the freakish alterations that passed for fashion in these parts. A little young by Othello's standards, though he wouldn't mind spending the night with her all the same...

Then he remembered she'd asked him a question. "Pardon?"

"You're the Head Gamemaker, right? Othello Cairns." She pressed further. "How do you deal with the, you know," she gestured vaguely. "The dead kids and everything?"

Othello thought of his father, struck down by the rebels without a second thought for the widow and child he would leave behind. He thought of the Dionysian masses of the Capitol, indolent wretches who knew nothing of hardship yet reveled in hate. And finally he thought of Aleph Hale, eyes blazing like a demon's as he emerged from the arena with the blood of a half dozen children still wet on his hands.

"Somebody has to do it." Othello grunted. He downed the last of his whiskey in a single gulp.

It wasn't a lie.

 _Somebody has to remind humanity of the monsters they can be._


	2. THE FALSE VICTOR

**The Hunger Games** belongs to Suzanne Collins.

* * *

 **2**

* * *

Another year, another failure.

Peeta let out a heavy sigh as he watched the hovercraft retrieve Taisha's body. Her death marked the twenty-third year in a row he had failed to bring a tribute home. She'd placed fourth, the highest a Twelve had scored in over a decade, but that fact offered little comfort to Peeta. Fourth or twenty-fourth, any placement short of first meant failure to him – and death to his tributes.

Much as he hated to admit it, his boy this year had been a lost cause. Knox was outrageously waifish and frail even by Twelve standards; the most Peeta could hope for him was that he be granted a quick death. He ended up being the first tribute to fall in the bloodbath, to the surprise of no one.

Taisha, on the other hand, had been another story entirely. Tall in stature and brawny in build, the miner's daughter was a natural scrapper if ever he'd seen one. Throw her unwavering tenacity and gutsy, no-nonsense attitude into the mix, and you had yourself Twelve's best prospect for victor in twenty years. Peeta had actually dared to hope he'd a contender on his hands this time around.

The girl from Four smashed that hope to pieces with a single devastating shot from her sling. Taisha, still recovering from a grueling battle against the tributes from One, never saw the attack coming. Her cranium was concaved before she even had a chance to react. Had he been younger, Peeta might have raged against the injustice of it all. Taisha took down two Careers. Taisha would have killed the Four girl in a fair fight. _Taisha had deserved to win._

Never mind that Taisha would certainly have done the same had she been in Four's position. That was simply how the Hunger Games went. _Deserved to win?_ Victory only belonged to those with the fortitude and foresight to seize it. There was no room for impractical concepts like _justice_ and _honor_ in the arena.

Katniss had understood that truth best, far better than he had. It was only thanks to her quick thinking and willingness to dirty her hands that she had been able to drag Peeta past the finish line in the first place. Yet she was dead, while he was alive. Even outside the arena, there was no such thing as justice. Because in a just world, the Capitol would have been overthrown. In a just world, the Hunger Games would no longer exist. In a just world, Katniss would still be at his side.

But the world was unjust, and Peeta could only do his best to cope with the scars it left him.

He gathered his things and rose from his mentoring station. Time to hit the bar. With both his tributes dead again, Peeta was free to numb the pain of his inadequacy with alcohol and vice. At least for a little while. Tomorrow he would awaken hungover and miserable, wondering why he hadn't yet put an end to his suffering – permanently.

That was the real question. What did Peeta still have to live for? His family was long gone, erased alongside the rest of District Twelve in a storm of fire and fury. The woman he once loved was dead, his memories of her hijacked and tainted by the Capitol. So why hadn't he gone to join them yet?

Twenty years ago, the answer would have been a sense of desperate, delusional optimism. Peeta had been a different person back then. Raw with grief, yet brimming with conviction all the same. He'd been spared, while countless worthier men and women had perished, for a reason. Gale. Finnick. Haymitch. _Katniss._ If he could save even a single life, then their sacrifices wouldn't have been for nothing.

But Peeta wasn't that boy anymore. Two decades of nothing but failure had jaded him. He thought back to Taisha, of all the potential she had, and how he still hadn't been able to save her. She'd deserved better than him. He wasn't a real mentor; he wasn't even a real victor.

He was a fool for ever believing in himself.

Yet Peeta persisted. Year after year, he did everything within his power to give his tributes even the barest sliver of a chance. It didn't matter if their odds were hopeless. It didn't matter if their mentor was worthless. Peeta could not let himself succumb to his own weakness. Because if he gave up on these kids, who else would fight for them? Not the Capitol. Not District Twelve. No matter how many times he failed, Peeta had to keep trying his best for his tributes.

Because he was the only person left who would.


	3. WHO'S THE MONSTER?

**The Hunger Games** belongs to Suzanne Collins.

* * *

 **3**

* * *

i

* * *

Iona couldn't sleep.

Tomorrow would be the final stop on her Victory Tour, a banquet held in her honor at the presidential mansion in the Capitol. _One more to go,_ Iona told herself as she restlessly paced the length of her cabin. One more stop before she could go back home to District Four. Back to being a self-loathing shell of her former self. Back to her life as a victor.

What happened to her?

Before her reaping Iona had been such a cheerful and outgoing girl. _Little Miss Sunshine,_ her friends had teasingly nicknamed her. A ray of hope and radiance even amidst the squalor of District Four. But the old her was dead. This new Iona was a girl who'd smashed every mirror in her Victor's Village mansion the day she moved in. Because she knew if she looked in one, she would only see a monster staring back at her.

 _Monster._ A fitting label for someone like her after all she had done. She'd seduced her stronger district partner into allying with her, then killed him in his sleep when he was no longer of use to her. She'd smashed a girl's head in with a stone from sixty yards and scavenged her corpse for what meager scraps of food she had on her. She'd hid and watched as the Two boy slew the boy from Eleven, only emerging to finish off the Career after he'd collapsed from the wounds he sustained in that brutal struggle.

 _I had to do it,_ Iona would tell herself as she lay awake at night trying to justify her actions to herself. _It was the only way I could survive._

Which she had. Whether she could live with herself afterward was another story entirely. The faces of the boys and girl she'd killed still haunted Iona in her nightmares. Perhaps that was the true reason she couldn't sleep. Not out of anticipation for tomorrow's occasion, but out of fear of what she might find waiting for her in her dreams. The wet and heavy sound of stone rending flesh. The stench of hot, freshly-spilled blood. The lifeless yet accusing gazes of her victims.

Kaito, her mentor, once told her that every victor came out of the Hunger Games stronger than before. Iona didn't agree, at least not in her case. She didn't feel stronger.

Just broken.

* * *

ii

* * *

The banquet was like nothing Iona had experienced before, not even in her first visit to the Capitol. Countless dishes, as elaborate as they were enticing, were splayed across tables stretching as far as the eye could see. Exotic performers bedazzled slack-jawed partygoers with marvelous feats of skill and grace. Silent servants glided through the crowd, wordlessly offering guests flutes of effervescent spirits.

It was too much for Iona. The opulence, the commotion, and the crowd blurred together into a roaring cacophony, relentlessly assaulting her weary senses. She felt sick. _I need to get out of here._

Not caring if she made a scene, Iona ducked her head, bulled through the crowd, and sprinted out of the ballroom before anyone could catch her. Down a labyrinth of hallways she went until she eventually found herself in an empty stairwell, doubled over and panting. She stayed like that for several moments, catching her breath, until the sudden jolt of a voice brought her back to her surroundings.

"Are you all right?"

Iona tensed. She spun around to face the speaker: a dark-skinned man in his late twenties, tall in stature and lean in build. One of the guests, judging from how well he was dressed. He looked strangely familiar to Iona, though she couldn't quite place him.

"What do you want?" Iona demanded, wary. Kaito had warned her of potential suitors in the Capitol. President Rhodes had discontinued his predecessor's practice of prostituting victors to the wealthy and powerful, but that did little to dissuade the particularly ambitious and lustful from trying to bed Panem's champions of their own accord. Iona clenched her fists and straightened her back. As broken as she felt, she was still more than capable of defending herself. She was still a _victor._

The man must have read the shift in her body language, because he backed off several paces. "Easy there, I mean you no harm," he said, his tone placating. "I just wanted to check in on how my newest victor was doing."

 _My newest victor._ The pieces fell into place. "You're the Head Gamemaker."

"Othello Cairns, at your service."

 _Othello Cairns._ Iona narrowed her eyes. This was the man who'd ruined her life. The architect behind the twisted arena that had reduced her to a self-loathing wreck of her former self. Even now he spoke of Iona as if she was _his_ victor, _his_ possession. She hated him.

"Stay away from me," said Iona, her tone suddenly icy. She wasn't so foolish as to believe that the Head Gamemaker was concerned for her well-being. No doubt he'd followed her here to torment her. To gloat.

Othello had the gall to look taken back. "You caused quite a scene back there, Iona. Like I said, I merely wished to make sure you were all right."

"I find that hard to believe," Iona snapped. "Not that I'm interested in anything you have to say. Get lost." She turned and stormed back down the hall, trying to retrace her steps back to the party. She would rather spend the rest of the night in that miserable mess than another moment alone with this man.

"Just a moment, Iona," Othello called after her. "I understand you dislike me—"

"Dislike you? That's putting it a bit too lightly, you bastard." Iona couldn't stop herself from spinning around and snarling back in response. "I hate you. More than anything in this world." _More than even myself._ "Because it was you who made me into a _monster._ "

Something flickered within Othello's eyes. The emotion passed too quickly for Iona to register, but she knew what she'd seen. The man was off-balance. She pressed her advantage.

"But what about you, Cairns?" Iona spat his name like a curse. "You were born in the Capitol. You had opportunities the rest of us could only dream of. And still you chose to dedicate your talents to the Hunger Games! To the murder of children!" She laughed – a hollow, wild sound. "I may have killed three people. But you have the blood of every tribute that died in that horrid arena on your hands!"

"How does it feel," she hissed. "To be a hundred times the monster I am?"

For an instant, a murderously dark expression clouded Othello's face. _Danger,_ Iona's instincts screamed at her as shivers raced down her spine. _Run._ Had she made a grave mistake in provoking this man? But then the moment passed, and his countenance relaxed. "I guess I should have expected as much," Othello admitted. "Run along now, girl." His eyes met hers, colder and sharper than shards of ice.

"And from one monster to another – enjoy your night."

* * *

 **Tribute List**

* * *

 **District One**

Male: Gawain Dumont, 18  
Female: Daria Macaulay, 18

 **District Two**

Male: Milo Pererri, 18  
Female: Myrina Ambello, 18

 **District Three**

Male: Archie Gabe, 16  
Female: Yael Kleiner, 17

 **District Four**

Male: Elias Waite, 18  
Female: Marisol Diaz, 13

 **District Five**

Male: Davion Faust, 16  
Female: Spark Costan, 15

 **District Six**

Male: Nadav Musgrove, 15  
Female: Flossie Newman, 12

 **District Seven**

Male: Matthias Longley, 17  
Female: Lana Morrow, 18

 **District Eight**

Male: Keaton Elwyn, 18  
Female: Moira Webber, 16

 **District Nine**

Male: Fervin Nowledge, 18  
Female: Iara Novaia, 18

 **District Ten**

Male: Jordan Jones, 18  
Female: Bree Waters, 17

 **District Eleven**

Male: Orell Beck, 14  
Female: Kahili Garland, 18

 **District Twelve**

Male: Cain Kynaston, 16  
Female: Riza Tamerlin, 16


	4. SHROUDS

**The Hunger Games** belongs to Suzanne Collins.

* * *

 **4**

* * *

i

* * *

Mist.

It hung low over District One on the day of the reaping, shrouding the city square in a ghostly veil. A haunting sight, but not an uncommon one at this altitude. All the same, Gawain Dumont found himself shivering as the cold and damp pressed against his skin.

No, Gawain wasn't afraid. But he'd be lying if he said he wasn't just a bit nervous. Only the arrogant or insane would be undaunted by the prospect of volunteering for the Hunger Games, and he considered himself neither.

 _Not the time for this,_ Gawain chided himself. Too many people were counting on him for him to fail.

Because even more than Gawain trusted himself, he trusted the capabilities of the instructors who had trained him. He trusted the judgement of the victors who'd chosen him. He trusted the faith of the family and friends who believed in him. With so many people supporting him, what right did Gawain have to doubt himself?

"Good day, District One!" Despite the somber weather, the escort was as upbeat as ever. It wasn't hard to see why, Gawain thought, as he looked to the victors seated behind her. Their district had earned five of them in the past twenty years, more than any other save Two.

Acting as escort for District One was undoubtedly a glamorous job, what with their proximity to the Capitol and their luxury-focused industry. But most importantly, One's tributes tended to be winners. And winners were always popular.

That was why Gawain was volunteering for the Games. He wanted to be admired by his peers. He wanted his parents to be proud of him. He wanted pretty girls to swoon over him. More than anything, he just wanted to be _liked._ A shallow motive, Gawain had to admit, but there were worse reasons for volunteering.

He paused his musings as the escort moved to the girls' bowl, drew a slip, and announced a name.

"I volunteer!" Twin cries followed simultaneously. In a heartbeat, two blondes were shoving through the crowd as they raced for the reaping stage. One of them Gawain was familiar with: Annabeth, the designated female volunteer. The other he didn't recognize, though he was certain he'd seen her before. Was she an Academy student?

Regardless of who the mystery girl was, she was a fool. Every few years someone like her would pop up. An overly ambitious trainee who thought they knew better than the mentors. As if their ego could compare to the expertise of those who had actually won the Games.

Truth be told, Gawain wished there was some way to prevent these pretenders from interfering with the chosen volunteers; the reaping was enough of a dog and pony show without their added theatrics. Not to mention how disrespectful it was to so boldly challenge the victors' judgement.

But back to the spectacle at hand. Annabeth, seemingly the swifter of the two, pulled ahead as they neared the stairs. Gawain nodded knowingly. The victors had made the right choice, as they always did. Never had a false volunteer made it onstage before the selected—

 _Crack._

Faster than anyone could react, the challenger took a great leap, spun in midair, and then drove her heel into the back of Annabeth's head. The tables turned in an instant. Annabeth went crashing down the steps. The other girl bounded up to the stage, turning to offer one last smirk to her downed competitor. "You should have known better than to turn your back on me, Anna."

"How feisty!" The escort exclaimed. "What's your name, dear?"

"Daria Macaulay!" The girl answered, flashing a bright smile to the cameras.

Gawain blinked. Though he didn't recognize her face, the name was known to him. She had been in his year at St. Clair's, but was expelled some months back for sleeping with a trainer. A bit harsh of a punishment, Gawain had thought at the time, but he understood where the Academy was coming from. The last thing the victors needed was a tribute who refused to play by their rules.

The victors! Gawain realized, with a start, that they'd been wrong about Annabeth. She'd been outclassed today, hard _._ There was no way she was ready for the Games. Yet they'd chosen her anyway. Gawain's throat suddenly felt dry. He dearly hoped Annabeth's underperformance was a mere fluke, because if not…

That meant the victors could be wrong about him as well.

"On to our male tribute!" The escort chirped, forcing Gawain back to the matter at hand. She chose another name, this time from the boys' bowl, and read it to the audience.

"I volunteer!" Gawain's voice, and his voice alone, rang out through the square. He allowed himself a small sigh of relief as he made his way to the stage uncontested. There would be time to doubt himself later. But for now, he had to be strong.

Everyone's eyes were on him, after all.

* * *

ii

* * *

Fog.

It crept in from the sea in the night, leaving District Four swamped under a tide of gray come morning. _How ominous,_ Elias Waite thought as he took his place in the eighteens' section. Of course he felt apprehensive. Anyone would be, were they in his position. Because in a few moments, Elias was going to volunteer for the Hunger Games.

How had it come to this?

Elias sighed. The answer was simple, no matter how much he tried to pretend otherwise: he was just really bad at saying no.

It seemed everyone he knew was always taking advantage of his agreeability. Asking him to run errands they couldn't be bothered with, getting him to do favors they would never repay. They knew he'd never make a fuss about it; after all, there was nothing Elias despised more than confrontation. His peers, his elders, even his so-called "friends" – they were all too willing to use him and then toss him aside once they were done with him.

And then there was Gran. She was the person guilty of using Elias the most.

She wasn't his real grandmother, but what else could he call the old woman who'd taken him in? Gran was the widow of Macklin, one of Four's first Career victors. She'd enjoyed a luxurious lifestyle for decades thanks to her husband's winnings, but it ended after he was killed in the Victors' Purge. This was where Elias came in. From the moment Gran adopted him seven years ago, she'd been training him to volunteer for the Games. To follow in her late husband's footsteps. She saw him as her ticket to an easy life.

 _I don't have to do this,_ Elias had tried to tell himself countless times. He was eighteen now; he could get a job, find a place of his own, and finally be free of Gran. There was nothing stopping him from just turning around and walking away.

Nothing except his own guilt.

Because, as much as Elias hated to admit it, he owed Gran. She'd saved him from a pitiless existence on the streets of Four, taking him under her roof when he'd been nothing more than a starving orphan. Everything he had in this life, he had because of her. If she wanted him to throw it away by volunteering for the Hunger Games, then so be it.

Not that Elias had any intention of dying. He was confident his strength was on par with the volunteers from One and Two. Four's Career system had been dismantled after the rebellion, but Gran still remembered the training regimen her husband had used before he volunteered half a century ago. It was hellish, to be sure, but Elias couldn't deny that it was effective. He was as ready as he'd ever be for the Games in the physical department.

But mentally? That was an entirely different matter. Elias thought of Four's two victors, Kaito and Iona. Though they were as different as two people could be, they still shared one crucial trait: readiness to kill. Elias just couldn't see himself as that kind of person. Even watching the fishmongers gut their wares at the market was enough to turn his stomach. To do that to another human being … he shuddered at the thought.

"District Four! Let's meet your tributes!" The escort hollered, jolting Elias from his morbid thoughts back to an equally morbid reality. The reaping had begun.

"From the ladies, let's welcome…" He trailed off as he reached into the girls' bowl to draw a name. "Marisol Diaz!"

It belonged to a girl in the thirteens' section. Tall and thin, with tan skin and dark hair. She laughed nervously and made her way to the reaping stage, wringing her hands as she did so.

"Anything you want to say, Marisol?" The escort asked as the girl took her place.

"Is this—" She broke off, voice shaky. "Is this for real?"

"I'm afraid so, dear." The man almost sounded sincere. "But not to worry – you're in good hands!" That part was directed at the two victors seated behind him. Kaito responded with a halfhearted wave, while Iona refused to even meet his eyes. Those two looked even less enthused about being here than the kids in the reaping pens.

"Well. Time to meet this year's lucky boy!" The escort rebounded gracefully enough. He snatched a name from the other bowl and read it. It wasn't Elias'. _Now or never,_ he told himself. This was his last chance to walk away.

Instead, he thrust a hand into the air. "I volunteer!"

Gasps spread through the audience like wildfire. Elias could feel their disbelieving gazes on him as he climbed up to the stage. He didn't blame them. He could hardly believe he'd gone through with this himself.

"A volunteer from District Four!" The escort gushed. "Why, I never thought I'd see that day come again! What's your name, you brave young man?"

"Elias Waite."

"And do you have anything else to add, Elias?"

 _Too many things._ But this was not the time nor place for them. So Elias answered with the one word he always wished he'd the courage to use.

"No."

* * *

iii

* * *

Haze.

It darkened the sky of District Six, casting a grim shadow over the city. A byproduct of the ever-burning foundries and ever-turning factories that churned out Panem's hovercrafts, trains, and automobiles. Nadav Musgrove hated it. It felt too much like a literal manifestation of the life being choked from the district. Not to mention the life it was choking out of him.

He coughed. The other fifteen-year-olds in his section gave him a wide berth as he doubled over and hacked up what felt like a lung and a half.

Nadav was dying. There was no sugarcoating it. He could feel his lungs festering within his chest with each passing day. His parents had been able to afford treatment for him at the beginning of his illness, but the costs had rapidly stacked up as his lung rot progressed. They'd all but bankrupted themselves trying to stop it, and for nothing. No medicine they bought had been able to cure him. At this point, only the Capitol's miracle drugs could save Nadav, but they were far beyond his reach.

But not beyond that of a victor's.

You heard that right: the boy who couldn't go five minutes without choking on his own blood was going to volunteer for the Hunger Games! Yes, it was an insane plan, yet the logic behind it was indisputable. Nadav placed his chances of surviving the Games at around one percent – _Don't give me that look, upsets aren't impossible!_ – but his likelihood of living to see the next year if he remained in Six was a cold, flat zero. Faced with these two options, his choice was the obvious one.

Still, Nadav would be lying if he said he didn't have his doubts about this plan. Clearest among its flaws was that he was in no condition to physically train for the Games. But there were other ways in which he could still prepare himself. Over the past few months, Nadav had read everything he could get his hands on about past Games. From arenas to muttations to victors; he'd studied them all, intending to arm himself with the deadliest weapon he could bring into the arena: knowledge.

Stacked as the odds were against him, Nadav had no intention of becoming bloodbath fodder. If he could anticipate what the Gamemakers would throw at him before the other tributes, he would be at an advantage in the arena. And sometimes even the smallest advantage could make a world of difference. Last year's victor, Iona, was proof enough of that. As was Six's own hometown hero, Locke.

Nadav's thoughts returned to the present as the big screen flickered to life above Hub C, displaying Six's escort standing before the Justice Building. The reaping had begun.

Reaping traditions varied with each district – that was another thing Nadav had come across in his research. Some districts, like Six, had their children assemble at multiple locations throughout the city while the reaping itself was coordinated from the Justice Building. Others, such as Seven or Eight, held preliminary selections and then reaped their tributes from that smaller pool. Then there were districts like One and Twelve, whose populations were small enough to fit entirely within their main squares for the reaping.

"Greetings, District Six!" The escort's voice sounded tinnier than usual; the speakers must have been getting old. She made a show of rummaging through the girls' bowl before withdrawing a slip. "Representing your district this year, we have, from the girls … Flossie Newman!"

The screen cut to Hub E, where the camera lasered in on a girl in the twelves' section. She was unassuming in height and build, with dark skin and curly brown hair.

Despite her appearance, it turned out Flossie was not the type of girl to go quietly. She struggled fruitlessly against the Peacekeepers as they hauled her out of the crowd, only stilling after one of them lost his patience and jabbed a stun baton into her back. From there, she was carried to the waiting car that would take her to the Justice Building. Nadav winced. It was always tough watching the fighters get reaped. Seeing them struggle, wanting so desperately to live, resonated with him in an uncomfortable way.

"Now, as for our boy." The camera returned to the escort as she drew another slip and announced its name.

"I volunteer!" Her lips had barely stopped moving when Nadav raised his hand and shouted out.

The crowd around him _shuddered_ in reaction. If the others in his section were uneasy of him before, now they appeared downright horrified. Nadav had to smile at the irony of a dying boy being most fearsome person in the audience.

"How heroic of you!" The escort swooned as the Peacekeepers led him to the waiting car. Nadav sighed; of course they'd misinterpreted his intention. This wasn't some noble sacrifice. Couldn't they see? Nadav clung to life just as desperately as anyone else. More so, in fact, if he was willing to brave the Hunger Games to preserve it. He was no hero.

To say otherwise would be admitting the only value his life held was in giving it.

* * *

iv

* * *

Smoke.

Twenty-four years after the rebellion, District Eight still burned. As acrid as the smell was, Moira Webber welcomed it. The message to the Capitol was loud and clear. _We will not go quietly._

Last night's target had been a Peacekeeper stockpile, one out of the dozens that dotted the district like cockroach nests. The Peacekeepers had written it off as a total loss, and Moira rejoiced at the thought of all their hoarded provisions and weaponry going up in flames. But victory never came without cost. The arsonists – no, the _heroes_ – now swayed beneath the gallows in the city square. A morbid backdrop to this year's reaping.

 _Your sacrifice will not be forgotten,_ Moira thought as she found a spot in the sixteens' section. The people of Eight would carry on the fight until either the Capitol was destroyed, or they were. Those of them that had even an ounce of self-respect, at least. There were still far too many people too afraid, selfish, or just plain shortsighted to join Moira and her brothers and sisters-in-arms in their crusade. Her parents among them.

Moira ground her teeth. She knew her father and mother had fought and bled for the rebel cause, as had the rest of her family, back in the days of the war. To reconcile that notion with the image of the man and woman who so meekly accepted the Capitol's rule was beyond her ability. They'd even tried to curb her own rebellious tendencies, despite their past! What the hell had happened to them?

Moira already knew the answer, even if she didn't like it: they'd settled down and given up the fight after having her. They were so terrified of what they might lose that they could no longer see what they'd already lost. All four of her grandparents were dead. The rest of their relatives crippled or enslaved. Moira's heart seethed at the injustice of it all. The Capitol would be made to pay for what they'd done to her and hers.

Moira would never forgive the Peacekeepers that struck down her family without mercy. The overlords that feasted while hundreds of thousands sickened and starved. The regime that branded the sons and daughters of District Eight like cattle.

Idly, she rubbed the mark on her cheek. A massive burn scar in the shape of a _V,_ stretching all the way from her jaw to just under her left eye. A vandal's brand. Moira received it after being caught defacing the Justice Building's walls with anti-Capitol graffiti. She had lost her job at the mill for her actions. Thanks to that, she'd been forced to take an extra tesserae ration this year. Despite all the misfortune it'd caused her, Moira still wore her mark with pride. If the Capitol believed disfiguring her was enough to break her spirit, they were mistaken.

"District Eight! Let's get this show on the road!" The new escort's voice drew Moira away from the throbbing of her cheek. She reached into the girls' bowl and selected a name.

"Moira Webber!"

Moira's first reaction was disbelief. On top of everything she and her family had gone through, now she'd been reaped? As reality set in, a storm of emotions vied for supremacy within her. She wanted to laugh at the absurdity of her misfortune. Scream at the injustice of her situation. Weep at the hopelessness of her fate.

Instead, she steeled her expression as the Peacekeepers prodded her up to the reaping stage. She would not give the Capitol the satisfaction of a reaction. Moira found her parents' faces in the crowd. They were crying. No doubt blaming themselves for their own history as rebels and their failure to stop her from following in their footsteps. _It's not your fault,_ she wanted to tell them. Only the Capitol was to blame for this.

Once she'd taken her place, the escort moved on to the boys' bowl. "Let's give a warm welcome to Keaton Elwyn!"

The name belonged to a boy in the eighteens' section. Light in skin and hair, slight in stature and build. He giggled as the Peacekeepers escorted him to the stage, actually looking _excited_ to have had his name called. No, there was no way anyone could be that stupid. Most likely he was hiding his true feelings behind a mask, just like Moira.

The two of them shook hands as the escort asked, then turned to face the audience for the reaping's closing formalities. Moira looked to her parents again. They'd regained their composure, but the look in their eyes was still that of raw heartbreak. _Don't worry, Mom and Dad,_ Moira wanted to tell them. This wouldn't be for nothing.

 _I'll make them pay for this._


End file.
